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| My Love There's not a fibre in my trembling frame That does not vibrate when thy step draws near, There's not a pulse that throbs not when I hear Thy voice, thy breathing, nay thy very name. When thou art with me every sense seems dim, And all I am, or know or feel is thee; My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame, And my bewildered spirit seems to swim In eddying whirls of passion, dizzily. When thou art gone, there creeps into my heart Acold and bitter consciousness of pain; The light, the warmth of life with thee depart, Thy greeting clasp, thy parting look and tone; And suddenly I wake - and I am alone. |
| Fanny Kemble |
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| This poem was dedicated to Alex |